


Esoteric

by TheHiddenMemory



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: BAMF Reese, Friendship, Gen, Post S03E23 Deus Ex Machina, injured reese, protective Reese, some h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenMemory/pseuds/TheHiddenMemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reappearance of John Reese is anything but what Detective Lionel Fusco expected. Post season 3 finale (3x23).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back when the season 3 finale had just aired but got insanely busy with work and didn't get around to finishing it. I'm posting it now because I wanted to have it done before the season 4 premiere. It should be three chapters. This first chapter and most of the second were done a while back. Now I just need to get the third down on paper. My plan is to have it done before the S4 premiere, but we shall see how that goes. Note that this was written before all the S4 spoilers. Though, I'm actually quite impressed with myself because it ended up following in line with most of the spoilers anyway. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.

~o~

The air was warm and crisp in lower Manhattan that day, the sun bright and exuberant, and yet its residents appeared strangely impervious to nature's generous benefactions. With the exception of the occasional tourist—the number of which also appeared oddly low—the people of Greenwich Village seemed almost too eager to reach their destinations for such a favorable day. Between Waverly Place and West 3rd Street, on the section of MacDougal Street thus named Washington Square West, a police cruiser pulled up against the curb. Out climbed a short, stout man, gun and badge briefly visible beneath his suit jacket before he straightened.

Detective Lionel Fusco was less than pleased, the door to the cruiser slamming shut so loudly in his wake that one might have feared it would become unhinged; its owner, after all, was clearly on the verge of doing just that. Tugging at his neckline and loosening his tie against the warm air he glanced around furtively as if suddenly realizing that announcing his arrival in such a ruckus manner probably hadn't been the best course of action. His attempted reversal of tactics was perhaps nonsensical on his part, however, considering he was in one of the most heavily surveilled parts of the city; attempting to hide in such an area was an entirely laughable prospect.

Fusco muttered darkly under his breath, daring someone to object to his parking in a no parking zone, something of which, of course, wouldn't happen. The perks of the badge and driving a police cruiser, and Fusco was damned if he didn't deserve some of those perks right about now. If he received any more calls from rookies today— _or_  his boss, for that matter, Fusco was going to toss his phone into the river. Becoming the illustrious detective Fusco following Simmons' arrest wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that was for sure, especially not now during the dismal like times they were all facing.

He stormed across the street, heading for Washington Square Park, cursing even the sun for shinning, convinced it was simply mocking him. Because, it wasn't only the chaos of his job that had him in such a mood today. No, today it was his job,  _and_  now  _this_. Whatever  _this_  was. As usual Fusco had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he was pretty darn sure he had correctly identified the source of the less than cryptic message telling him to meet here, and if he was right—which he was ninety-nine point nine percent sure he was—he was going to give the son of a bitch a piece of his mind. What he didn't acknowledge—because he'd shoot himself in the leg with his own gun before ever admitting it—was the relief he'd felt upon receiving the message earlier that day.

But right now, Fusco was about as far from relieved as one could get. No, right now Fusco was fuming mad. After entering the park from its west side he now stood at the base of one of its monuments.

_Where_  the hell  _was_  he then? What did he think? That Fusco had nothing better to do than stand around here waiting?

A kid on a bicycle zoomed past, nearly taking Fusco's arm with him. "Hey! Watch it!" Fusco yelled after him.

Just bloody brilliant. Just great. Just how he wanted to spend his afternoon. As usual the park was bustling with activity; kids on bikes, rollerblades, and skateboards; people walking their dogs, jogging, running; people chattering away on cell phones etc, etc. In addition to the usual buzz of activity fitting for Washington Square Park on a sunny summer day, however, was the sense of heightened anxiety that had gradually grown over the city in recent months. It was rarely acknowledged aloud, but you'd have to be near dead to be completely oblivious to it. Fusco, as an NYPD homicide detective, had a front row seat. What was it…double? Triple?  _Triple_ the number of homicides and unexplained deaths in this past month alone. Ever since the blackout something had shifted, something sinister, and while Fusco couldn't even begin to explain exactly what it was, he was far from oblivious to it.

He scanned the crowds of people, his irate mood mounting. The man should be easy to spot, given that he towered over the average person in height. If he was here, Fusco should be able to spot him. Then again, if he didn't want to be seen…

Someone's cell phone rang loudly from nearby.

And continued ringing.

Until Fusco realized.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, pulling out the foreign phone from his pocket and glancing around him in a futile attempt to determine how it had ended up in his suit pocket. The cursed thing kept up its incessant demand to be answered, much to Fusco's consternation. He shook his head, incredulous. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly how it had gotten there. If he hadn't already been certain with whom he was dealing with, he was now. This had one person's name written all over it.

Well, maybe two. There was never one without the other, after all. At least not in Fusco's experience.

"Hello, Lionel."

The low voice that came through the line was all too familiar, and the completely languid tone and elementary greeting, as if the bastard was simply calling to discuss the weather, was the last straw for Fusco.

" _Hello, Lionel?_ " Fusco echoed, with a great deal more gusto injected into his tone. " _Three_  months,"—his fingers flew up and jabbed at the air for emphasis—"three months and I don't hear nothing from you—from  _any_  of you—no call, no text, no email.  _Nothing_ , nada, zip, not a  _peep_. It's as if you'd just dropped off the face of the earth, the whole damn lot of you, and all you've got to say is,  _Hello, Lionel?_ "

There might have been some kind of reply from the other end of the line, possibly in the form of a long sigh, but Fusco was loath to hear it.

"I mean, I know we weren't exactly  _The Brady Bunch_ ," he went on, "but I should think we were at least a team. How many times have I laid my ass on the line for you and your four-eyed friend, huh? How many times have I  _saved_  your sorry ass? And did I ever get any thanks? Oh, no. It was always just do this, Lionel, do that, Lionel. Or call Fusco because he doesn't have anything better to do than to play sidekick to a bunch of—"

"I don't have time for this, Lionel," the voice on the other end of the line interrupted. "And I need you to do two things for me."

A sound escaped Fusco that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"I rarely kid."

" _You_  don't have time for this?" Fusco barked, and this time he did laugh, bitterly. "Oh, that's good, that's  _real_  good." He laughed again in utter contempt. " _You_  were the one that told me to come all the way down here. And— where the hell are you, anyway? We here to meet or what? Because, you know what—"

"We  _are_  here to meet, detective. Just as soon as you stop scanning the park for me every five seconds."

Fusco opened his mouth, closed it. Made an indignant sound of disbelief, and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder and look for the man he had deemed to call  _Bane Of My Existence_.

"That's better. We really need to work on your fieldwork skills, detective. Merge and mingle. Survival 101."

Okay, if he wasn't already, Fusco was really,  _really_  starting to get pissed off.

"And I need you to take out your phone, destroy it," the voice added.

"Destroy my…" Fusco made another abject sound. "Destroy my phone," he repeated dubiously. "You want me to destroy my phone. You gonna pick up the tab on that, because I doubt 'my dog ate it' will go over well with my boss."

"Just do it, Lionel." The voice on the other end of the line was notably losing patience.

Fusco was shaking his head, muttering "unbelievable" under his breath, and looking more than a little furious, yet still he did as bid, something that from an outsider's perspective was perhaps quite surprising.

The detective was certainly making it no secret of his displeasure, however. After grudgingly stomping on his phone and discarding it in a nearby waste bin, he straightened and caught the foreign phone he'd been holding up to his ear with his shoulder in his hand again. "You know what," he began, "never getting any  _thank you_ s, I can live with, but if you're not even going to—"

Fusco's ultimatum died on his lips. When he turned back around to face the park, the man was striding toward him, footsteps and movements marked with such dexterity that Fusco had heard nothing of his approach.

The drastic change in demeanor when the detective caught sight of the taller man was telling. It was an odd partnership, to be sure, but if one was paying close enough attention, particularly in that moment, one would see that, while unconventional in a multitude of ways, and, judging by the belligerent wordplay between the two, denied by both, the two men could be none other than friends.

"Christ, what the hell happened to you?" Fusco's anger had evaporated from one second to the next, and there was a note in his voice that, if he wasn't careful, almost sounded like concern.

He lowered his phone, eyes remaining trained on the approaching figure of John Reese before him.


	2. Chapter 2

o~O~o

The people milled about, the park security roaming. It was near impossible for any one individual to stand out from another.

The two men were no exception.

Which was, perhaps, the intent.

He strode forward purposely, his solid, lithe frame holding not an ounce of extra weight, every step, the constant, strategic movement of his eyes all executed with military precision.

And every ounce of his poise belying his actual state.

To any not looking close enough, that was.

Detective Fusco was looking close enough.

The shorter man clearly possessed much less practiced wit, his eyes flickering around to the likeness of a deer caught in headlights. One ought to have told him that maintaining such poise—or rather, the lack thereof—was only counterproductive.

Regardless, as the ex-CIA agent drew closer, Fusco easily took in the anomalies so craftily disguised from the casual, bypassing eye.

He took in the long trench coat that, while not atypical, was unbefitting of the current weather conditions. He took in the shadowed stubble on the usually clean-shaven jaw. He took in the dark crimson gash above the man's brow. The nearly black bruise from cheek to jaw. The inescapable signs of exhaustion dominating every feature. The subtle, barely there… _limp?_ —was it possible Fusco had imagined that last one?

The man came to a stop before him. In typical John Reese fashion and despite Fusco's startled reaction and close scrutiny, his countenance gave nothing away. The man's limitless ability to maintain a poker face had always been both undeniably impressive and endlessly irritating to Fusco. That was nothing new. Nor was Reese's complete absence of small talk as well as any form of a greeting. The man had always been one to get directly to the point.

What  _was_  unusual, however, was the extent of his stoic façade. Even Fusco's less than flattering remark on his appearance—something along the lines of him resembling death warmed up, with Fusco's choice of words being perhaps even more vividly visual and blunt—failed to provoke any kind of reaction from Reese.  _That_  was unusual indeed. The absence of any quick-witted or wry retort from Reese set off a number of alarm bells in Fusco's mind. Reese's solemnity accorded to that growing, desolate undercurrent that Fusco just hadn't been able to shake in recent weeks. His gut sank.  _Bloody hell_. Just  _once_ couldn't _Mr. Tall, dark, and gloomy_  come to him with  _good_  news? Right. Fusco would sooner see pigs fly.

Reese chose to ignore the detective's wide-eyed reaction to his appearance. He reached into the front of his black overcoat and withdrew a manila envelope. "Jerome Dixon. Guy in your custody."

Fusco was already shaking his head. "No.  _Oh_ , no." He waved the envelope away. "Not until you give me some answers."

Reese was unperturbed, his hand not lowering an inch as he continued to hold the file out in front of him. "You have two choices, detective. You either help ensure Dixon's twelve year-old niece lives to see her thirteenth birthday, or you don't. Your choice."

Fusco snatched the file from his hand. "That's a low blow. A low blow, and you know it."

A teen on a skateboard careened past them and Fusco only spared him a cursory glance, eyes refocusing on the man before him. "For pity's sake, I thought you were all  _dead."_

"As far as you're concerned, Lionel, we are dead."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Reese didn't answer.

Fusco exhaled loudly. "You at least want to tell me why you look like dead Frankenstein walking?"

"Let's just say having a day job isn't as easy as it looks."

Fusco snorted. "You, a day job? Yeah, right. And pink dogs also fly." He opened his mouth to add more but stopped when he saw Reese's expression. "Wait, you telling me you're serious?"

"Jerome Dixon. What do you know about him?"

"You can't just spring something like that on me without some kind of explanation!"

A dog barked from nearby, and Fusco passed a hand over his eyes before glancing up at his companion again. Reese's inscrutable expression hadn't budged. But neither had his haggard appearance. Fusco had only seen the ex-op in any such comparable state once before, and if he was honest he found it extremely disquieting. The man had always seemed so indestructible that seeing him in such a clearly weakened state was unsettling. Fusco had to remind himself that despite the ex-operative's near supernatural, black ops, kind of talents, he was still flesh and bone human just like the rest of them.

Fusco had to wonder, however, if Reese himself didn't need reminding of that fact. If the stark lines and dark shadows rimming the ex-op's eyes were any indication, he should've been just about collapsing from shear exhaustion. Instead, his gaze was sharp and steady. The startling contrast between his visual appearance and his actual physical bearing was chilling. The man was unbelievable.

"I don't have all day, Lionel. Dixon. Tell me what you know."

Fusco shook his head, stupefied. "Yeah, yeah, Dixon. I heard you the first time. Rap sheet taller than he is…. Extortion, money laundering, drug trafficking, pimping, yada, yada…You name it, he's done it. Real slime ball. Of course that's nothing new."

Not for the first time Fusco's anxiously flickering gaze stopped on the uniformed state trooper and city parks department security officer conversing at the far corner of the park.  _Park security, my ass,_  thought Fusco.

"Are there some hidden explosives in the park I don't know about?"

Fusco's gaze snapped back at Reese's sardonic remark. The ex-op was watching the detective, seemingly completely unconcerned by the pair across the park from them, much to Fusco's annoyance.

"You need to relax, detective," Reese observed. "Remember what I said earlier. We really do have to work on your skill set."

Fusco shot him a glare. "You picked a hell of a time to go off the grid, you know that?"

From a distance one could see the shadowed movement of the much smaller figure as it approached the two men, one of whom was completely oblivious, the other only ostensibly so.

Reese's movement was so swift that Fusco barely had time to register it. If one had deduced based on the ex-op's battle-worn appearance that a diminution in reflexes would've naturally followed, they would have been sorely mistaken.

Fusco looked from Reese's coolly collected expression down to the now struggling to get free kid in his grasp. No more than ten years old, the boy wore a dark hoody that was slipping from his head to reveal a dirt-smeared face. Wrist trapped in Reese's unyielding grip from where the ex-op had caught it just inches from his pocket, it was quite plain to conclude what had transpired. Doubtless, the boy had chosen the wrong coat to pickpocket.

After a skillful sweep of his eyes over the boy to appraise threats, Reese released him without a word or a second glance, and the kid ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.

Dumbfounded, and having not even  _seen_  the boy approach, Fusco stared after him. "You just letting him go?" he blurted stupidly.

Reese, having reasonably decided the question didn't warrant an immediate answer, tossed an object at the detective.

Fusco scrambled but managed to catch it in the one hand that wasn't still holding the manila file. He looked down at the object and all he could do was shake his head. His wallet. He half expected another insult from Reese at his total lack of awareness and street-smart, but the taller man's features were once again grimly solemn.

"We have more important things to worry about," was all he said.

Fusco didn't doubt it. But he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't slug the man to insure that he was indeed human. While Fusco may not have possessed Reese's skill, he hadn't been given the title of  _detectiv_ e for nothing. His suspicion as to why Reese was wearing the long coat despite the weather had been confirmed; the labels had parted briefly when Reese had seized the boy.

Fusco had not missed the glimpse of red.

Reese was more injured than he was letting on.

Fusco didn't doubt there was more than just that concealed behind the calmly efficient veneer.

The ex-CIA agent's eyes were swiveling, acutely alert. Even more so now. Pickpocketing had never been commonplace in secure, surveilled locations such as that of Washington Square Park.

That fact had not been lost on either of the two men.

Fusco had seen enough in recent weeks to know it was neither unexpected nor unprecedented. When the behemoths of society became disreputably capricious, society itself would follow.

The detective gestured with his wallet. "Like I said," he continued with a nod, "You picked  _one hell_  of a time to go off the grid." He re-pocketed the wallet. "Whole world's going to hell."

A woman in well-worn looking clothes ushered her young son past them, a baseball clutched in the latter's tiny hand as if it were a prized possession. Reese's gaze lingered briefly over the pair as they hurried up the path near the park's south end, then returned to the shorter man, any drop in his veneer firmly replaced. "I'm aware of the situation, Lionel," he said with a touch of impatience.

"Yeah?" Fusco challenged. The detective had a pretty strong suspicion Reese was much more than just aware of the situation. He also knew the direct approach would get him less than nowhere with the ex-agent.

"You have any idea what it's been like working homicide these past weeks? Really could've used some help, you know," he said pointedly. "But you and Glasses decided to take a vacation." There was a pause. "Where is Glasses, anyway?" Something in Reese's eyes flickered at the mention of his former employer, and Fusco's gaze zoned in on the absence of the normally ever-present earpiece in the taller man's right ear. "Wait a minute. You did rescue him from the psychopath that kidnapped him, right? I mean, he's not still—"

"He's fine." Reese's tone was terse.

Fusco eyed him skeptically. "You sure about that? Because you don't look so sure."

"I'm not his keeper, Lionel," Reese said with irritation now. "He was fine the last time I saw him."

"The last time you saw him," Fusco echoed, disbelief plain on his face. "What does that mean?"

"It means, Lionel," Reese said with mounting impatience, "that I don't have time for this." Ignoring the way Fusco shook his head when his questions were once again deftly avoided, Reese nodded at the file. "There should be enough there to hold him for a couple more days until we get something more concrete," he said, referring to the dossier package on Dixon. "I need you to make sure he stays in police custody until then."

Fusco snorted. "You're kidding, right? This guy's got fancy-pants lawyers coming out of his ass. Ain't nothing but concrete evidence gonna stick."

"Well you'd better figure out a way to  _make_ it stick, Lionel. Unless you'd rather be preparing condolences to Lena Dixon's family for when they come to ID the body."

"Fabulous," Fusco grumbled. "Thanks for nothing. How am I supposed to know when you have enough on this piece of garbage? How do I contact you?" He held the file under his arm and withdrew from his breast pocket the phone Reese had called him on.

"You don't," Reese said without faltering. "I'll contact you. And I'll need you to destroy that," he added, indicating the phone.

Fusco eyed it. "Why?" he demanded. "What is it with you and phones? If you're still trying to stay under the radar why did you want to meet  _here?_  Place is a hornet's nest for privacy activists. Mass surveillance at its finest." Fusco's eyes darted around uneasily at the security cameras mounted around the park. Ever since the DOD leaked black budget report scandal, privacy activists had been popping up out of the woodwork left right and center.  _And disappearing just as promptly_ , Fusco thought to himself.  _Just as promptly and much too cleanly_. And what was more was that they did have a point, Fusco thought. The idea of the government having unfettered access to eavesdrop on personal communications with no mechanism for accountability wasn't a comforting prospect.

Reese was still calmly collected. "Haven't you ever heard of hiding in plain sight, Lionel?"

"Would you stop with the cryptic crap and answer the damn question for once?"

Reese raised his brow but didn't respond.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. How about this, then. Why  _now?_  You disappear without a trace, dozens of cold ones turn up, some with the same type of MO you'd usually stop, and now, almost three months later, you reappear out of thin air, information on someone in trouble in hand just like old times. This girl something special to bring you back into the game? What about all the others in between, huh? 'Cause I can tell you right now that there have been others, others just like Lena Dixon. Many others. I've seen the bodies, seen the files, watched most of them get tossed aside when they're declared  _not worth_  NYPD's budget and limited personal. So what about  _them?_  I'd call you out for picking and choosing who you want save in your vigilante regime, but I know you better than that, know you must have a damn good explanation. So let's hear it. Just what the  _hell_  is going on?"

Reese's lips were pressed together in a grim line. "I can't tell you that."

Fusco responded with a derisive smile. "And, lo and behold, we have a straight answer!"

"Histrionics won't get you anywhere, detective."

"No? How about you tell me what will, then, because I think you owe me a better answer than that."

Reese directed his gaze skyward as if counting to ten, and breathed out audibly. "We were compromised, Lionel. We had no choice but to disappear. That's all you need to know."

Fusco's smile was humorless. "Allow me to enlighten you, because  _clearly_  you don't know  _shit_  as much as you think you do.

"Ever since that godforsaken blackout I have been up to my eyeballs with cases. Unsolved. Unexplained. Missing evidence. Redacted case files. Disappearances. Demotions. Promotions. Whole department reshuffling. The Feds, DHS, DOD,  _DCIS_ , and everyone's bloody  _uncle_  breathing down my neck, concealing evidence, covering tracks, pulling files.

"Shit's hit the fan. Can't trust anyone. And I mean  _anyone_. I don't know what the hell is going on, and I sure as anything don't know why, but damned if there isn't some sort of abuse or corruption going on at the highest levels of government.  _Damned_  if there isn't something insidious going on in our own backyard. Two days ago I watched a five-year-old kid with three bullet holes go in a body bag, watched the mother dragged from the body while the  _Feds_  buried evidence.

"So don't you  _dare_  stand here and tell me that's  _all I need_  to know."

Reese was silent for a long moment, and for the first time that day Fusco could note the strain on his face. Finally, he spoke.

"We've been working together a long time, detective. You are one of very few people privy to the type of work that we did."

Fusco shifted uncomfortably. He had an inkling of where this was heading.

"You knew the breadth of our information, you knew its reliability; you never questioned us for its origins," Reese summated. "Now Finch," His lips edged up in an ironic kind of smile, "Finch always thought your lack of inquiries was simply because you weren't the inquisitive type." His eyes were trained on Fusco now, and he spoke with that calm efficiency that never failed to intimidate those on the receiving end. "I knew better." He paused. "In fact, it was one of the reasons I chose you in the first place."

A wind had picked up, sending Reese's coat billowing and Fusco's tie flapping. Neither man budged.

"Because, you see, Lionel," continued Reese, "you were one of very few people who knew when to stop asking questions."

The words hung in the air for several seconds, their connotation plain.

"And it's the only reason you were spared," he finished in a detached tone. "It's the only reason you weren't forced to flee right along with the rest of us. It's the only reason your life is still your own."

There was a mark of an infinite kind of sadness when the last line was spoken, something that not even the ex-agent could conceal.

A long silence followed, the movement of those around them seeming somehow muted. Fusco did not speak.

Finally, Reese turned to leave, his unflappable expression still in place. "Do yourself a favor, detective," he said as he glanced back over at the shorter man. "Don't start asking."

Reese was halfway poised to walk away before Fusco finally found is voice. "Tell me something," he said loudly, causing Reese to stop and look back over his shoulder. "This thing you're up against _,_ whatever the hell it is, whoever the hell's involved, it's obviously bigger than all of us _,_ bigger than your everyday piece of trash like Dixon _. S_ o why are you still playing vigilante hero? Why come back and rescue an ant in a battlefield? Seems to me like you have more important things to worry about."

Reese didn't answer right away. His eyes moved over the now dwindling crowd of people hurrying about the park around them before landing on the detective again. "If you had information," he said finally, "information that someone was planning a violent crime, from a source that's never wrong, could you just stand by and do nothing?" With that, the ex-agent turned and started walking back the way he'd come.

"Hey," Fusco called out again to his retreating back—where he noted that he had not been imagining things earlier; the ex-agent's stride was ever so slightly off-balance.

Reese stopped again but didn't turn.

"That's all fine and dandy, Wonderboy," Fusco admonished, breaking somewhat into their normal camaraderie. "But you won't be any good to anyone if you're  _dead_."

Reese didn't answer. He just resumed walking.

A few seconds after his tall form had disappeared from sight, Fusco jumped as the phone in his hand bleeped. He glanced down at the two words illuminated on the display.

_Thank you_

Fusco shook his head dubiously once more, knowing it was, in part, a reference to his earlier rant and Reese's penchant for never affording him any kind of gratitude.

The more troublesome realization, however, was that he could recall only one other instance in which Reese had outwardly extended him gratitude.

It had been about a year and a half ago.

It had been when the ex-agent had been strapped to a bomb vest and about to step out onto the roof of a building to die.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this was written before Season 4 aired. So why didn’t I post this before now? It’s a long story that I won’t go into. Short version is I got a little miffed at some more thieving of my stuff. Not in this fandom, but I didn’t feel much inclined to post (and it’s not like this story is exceedingly popular anyway...). Regardless, after some recent episodes it reminded me to post. I’m actually really impressed with myself in how much this story has ended up paralleling the actual show. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.

o~O~o

It was later that same day, and the fringes of early evening sunlight were dull in the now cloud-ridden sky.

The several rounds of gunfire were followed by the screeching of tires as the black SUV with tinted windows took a near ninety-degree turn, smoking its tire tread as it peeled off down the narrow side road in a decrepit area of Manhattan. 

The rundown street bordered by low-rise buildings was met with an unnatural silence in its wake. No sirens taking up the chase. No onlookers reeling. Not in this vicinity. 

Fusco’s heavy breathing was all that pierced the abrupt stillness, a notable contrast to his neighboring companion’s silent stealth. 

John Reese’s ability to maintain such a degree of phlegmatic comportment in just about any situation was impressive. In Reese’s line of work adrenaline and fear offset aim, efficiency, reflexes. In Reese’s line of work, adrenaline and fear got you killed.  

Fusco, however, doubted any amount of training or background would ever bring himself up to rival that of his long-time colleague (of sorts) in this respect. Being shot at was just not natural, and your body would react accordingly—at least, any normal person’s would. The fact was, Reese’s skills in the field were unrivalled by anyone Fusco had ever met.  

While Fusco’s hands still griped the butt of his service weapon, eyes trained on the spot the vehicle had been all of thirty seconds prior, the ex-CIA agent had retracted his SIG, unloaded and reloaded it, and returned it to his waistband with practiced ease and casual indifference. 

“Long time no see, Lionel. Miss me already?”

Fusco afforded him a sidelong death glare. Despite the ex-agent’s lax forefront, Fusco knew him well enough to know that, just as sure as the man could re-draw his gun in a matter of seconds, should it be needed, he was also more than aware of the seriousness of the situation. Skills aside, not even Reese could have walked away from that ambush without aid. Had Fusco not made the last minute decision to follow him from Washington Square Park, he would likely be sporting one too many bullet holes. As it was, Fusco had only managed to arrive at the last second. The element of surprise had allowed the pair to force the shooters into a tactical retreat. 

“You want to tell me why those guys were shooting at you?” Fusco demanded, eyes still scanning over the overturned dumpster they’d taken cover behind.

“If I had to guess I’d say they were trying to kill me.”

Reese’s satirical remark was met with another glare.

Fusco, still attempting to smooth his riled nerves, was not yet ready to recede his weapon or glance away from his aim point for more than a second. Eyes refocusing straight ahead, he swore loudly when his companion didn’t offer anything further. “Dammit, Reese. That SUV was _armored_ , run-flat tires. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” 

Fusco glanced the ex-op’s way long enough to see the inquiring raise of brow. The shorter man inclined his head in the general direction of where the vehicle had been, answering the unspoken query. “Rear tires to disable, front and rear passenger windows to take out shooter and driver, front-side metal to kill the engine. I saw you take the shots. I also know you don’t miss. So. That means armored with run-flat tires. I also know those sorts of vehicles aren’t plentiful outside certain circles. Mostly our own _government’s_.” 

“I’m impressed, Lionel. You figure that out all by yourself?” 

Fusco shot him another dark look. 

Reese’s nonchalance made for an imposing contrivance. After a deliberate sweep of his eyes over the shorter man’s form and posture, taking in all relevant details, a half grin tugged at his lips. He jerked his chin in the direction of the detective’s grip on his weapon, taking note of the unclenched slack despite obvious agitation. An overly tight grip meant an increase in error rate of about thirty percent or more. “And it’s good to see you _have_ actually retained some of what I taught you after all.”

Fusco dropped his weapon arm with a defeated scowl, more than a little irritated at Reese’s tactic of deflecting the spotlight away from himself. Not to mention he didn’t want to lend the man further satisfaction that he had indeed valued everything he had taught him.

After a moment’s deliberation and another glance down to where the SUV had disappeared Fusco finally holstered his weapon. He’d conceded to himself and his riled nerves that despite the man’s ostensible carelessness the ex-agent would be reacting accordingly should there be any hint of a return threat.

“But,” Reese went on fluidly, “next time you’re tailing someone I’d recommend more than two cars back.”

Fusco’s hand stilled on its re-adjustment of his holster, and he gave another grim half smile of incredulity. He supposed he should have known better than to think he’d actually gained one on the man for once. 

“Also,” continued Reese, “the next time you deem fit to tail me, I strongly recommend you warn me in advance. I’ve never appreciated being followed and tend to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Fusco muttered something indecipherable under his breath. Weapon holstered, he eyed the taller man critically. He'd noted the way Reese had braced his shoulder against the wall of the neighboring building. He also noted the change when Reese had checked his watch.

Reese had caught Fusco’s scrutinizing eye and pushed away from the building. “What are you doing here, Lionel?” he asked with a touch of impatience now. 

“What am I doing here? Saving your sorry ass, that’s what. For God’s sake, have you _seen_ yourself lately?” 

“I try not to make a habit of it.” He started to move past the shorter man. “And I have somewhere I need to be.” 

Fusco pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it at the ex-agent, who caught it on reflex. Reese’s brow rose at the detective after he took measure of the thick roll of first aid gauze in his hand. 

Fusco’s stare was unwavering. “I saw the blood, Wonderboy. In the park.” 

There was a grim quirk of Reese’s features as he looked away. “I’m touched, Lionel. Didn’t know you cared so much.” 

Fusco’s patience gave way then. “Would you _stop_ with the tough guy act for once in your bloody life?”

Reese’s eyes flicked to Fusco before staring fixedly ahead again. He handed the gauze back as he stepped past him. “I appreciate the concern, detective, but it’s just a graze. And as I said I’m running on a bit of a schedule. So thanks for the assist. I’ll be in touch.” 

Fusco whirled round to face him, his face drawn in anger and a determined set to his jaw. 

“Take off the jacket.” 

Reese stopped, turning back to face the detective with his brow hiked almost to his hairline. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. I seem to recall that the last time you got shot you deemed yourself fit to go out on a murderous rampage, took out a building of feds, and then had to have your sorry ass dragged out of the building as you bled to death. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your personal injury assessment at its word.” 

Reese’s brows climbed even higher. 

“Take off the damn jacket, John, or so help me I’ll do it myself.”

The corner Reese’s mouth had turned up in amusement, his look partly challenging. “You do realize that injured or not I could still take you out right now.” 

“Yeah, but you won’t.” 

Reese was bemused. Fusco remained admirably resolute.

“You know,” Reese said finally, “I really miss the days you were afraid of me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too,” Fusco quipped, his look just a little smug as Reese finally shrugged out of the extra layer. 

Long trench coat removed, one could already see part of the dark red stain spreading out from beneath one side of Reese’s suit jacket. At Fusco’s pointed look, Reese discarded the suit jacket as well. 

“That’s what I thought,” said Fusco. 

A substantial and very fresh-looking bloodstain soaked the normally crisp white shirt at Reese’s right abdomen. Fusco tossed back the gauze, and Reese lowered himself to sit on a battered, non-functioning air conditioning unit. The street was still empty of any activity. 

“We clearly have different definitions of _just a graze_ , Wonderboy,” Fusco remarked when Reese tugged the shirt out from his waistband. The bloodstain was even darker when it edged somewhat around the lower back, suggesting the point of origin. 

“Glancing bullet, Lionel. No penetration. But I really am touched by your concern.” 

The shirt joined suit jacket and coat, revealing dark bruised ribs and a trim, well-toned torso decorated with an array of various other contusions, some fresh looking others older.

“Christ, what did you do? Get into a fight with a three-hundred pound gorilla?”

“Something like that. Vigilante superhero, remember? Comes with the territory.”

“You’re full of crap, you know that?” Fusco watched him unwind the gauze with no response. “I’ve seen you take out ten guys without so much as a paper cut. Heck, I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve seen you take a hit in a fight. This,” he gestured at Reese, “this is not normal.” 

Reese still didn’t respond. 

A minute of silence went by, and Fusco eyed the ex-agent’s very poor attempt at applying first aid. It wasn’t from lack of skill, Fusco knew. Reese’s background had indeed afforded in-depth know-how in first aid. No, it had nothing to do with inability and everything to do with the man’s irritating lack of regard for his own well-being.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” After snatching the piece of fabric from the ex-agent, Fusco stooped down to do the job himself. “Glasses was right, you really are incapable of looking after yourself.” Reese glared testily back at him, and Fusco took special care to tug the bindings just a bit more tightly than strictly necessary. He grinned in satisfaction at the resulting grunt of pain he received from Reese. “That’s good to know,” said Fusco. 

“What?” Reese growled.

“That you’re human.” 

Reese’s look was murderous as he slipped his shirt back on. 

Fusco saw Reese’s gaze flick to his watch for the third time in five minutes, and said, “So where we headed to now?” 

Reese looked up sharply. “ _We_ aren’t headed anywhere, Lionel.” 

“Given that you seem way too in a hurry for a dinner date and judging by the fact that you were heading through _this_ part of town, I’m guessing you’re not late for a picnic. Which means I’m coming. You told me to warn you in advance next time, so there you have it.” 

“Did you hear _nothing_ I said earlier?” Reese hissed. 

And Fusco knew it wasn’t a matter of pride or arrogance, or teasing. There was a measure of fear, of agitation, of desperation that he’d never seen in John Reese before. It had been there since the moment the man had first appeared. It had been in his solemnity. In his guarded look. In his silence. This wasn’t a game. This was serious, Fusco knew. It was big. Bigger than he would ever know. Knowing was dangerous. Association was dangerous. Ties of any kind were dangerous. Fusco knew. He understood.

Fusco stared back at him. “Yeah, I heard you,” was all he said. He turned toward the street. “You coming or what? I’m driving.” 

Reese watched him retreat up the street, shaking his head in bewilderment, but a slow smile had crept across the ex-agent’s lips. And for the first time in a long while, it was genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it would seem I lied about this story only being 3 chapters. There is at least another chapter, and likely another two. Also, in case you’re wondering why I tagged him for the story, Finch makes his appearance in the next chapter. Reese & Finch (and some Fusco, of course) coming up! Can’t write anything without my fav duo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had this chapter written, but the last part had only been written in my head and not on paper and seeing as what’s in my head often takes on a mind of its own I had preferred to finish it before posting this part. Then I got sidetracked with other stuff. You know how it is. As it turns out, that last part, meant to be the epilogue to this, did in fact transform from what I’d originally intended. Go figure. Long story short, it ended up writing itself into a short standalone piece instead of an epilogue and as a result this is therefore the final chapter of ‘Esoteric.’ A long time coming -- considering all 4 of these chapters were written prior to season 4 airing. Oops. Sorry everyone. The independent piece will act completely as a standalone in that it won’t be at all necessary to have read ‘Esoteric’ prior. However, it will more or less act as an epilogue/sequel to ‘Esoteric’ if the reader is so inclined. I should be posting it in a few days or so if you would like to keep an eye out. In the meantime, enjoy, and thank you to everyone reading and reviewing.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.

o~O~o

“So what was it you said we were doing here again?”

They hadn’t travelled far, and the venue hadn’t changed much; this part of town was just as seedy and disreputable as the last. 

“I didn’t.” The response was terse. Reese didn’t spare the shorter man so much as a glance as he continued to do visual sweeps of their surroundings without seeming to.

“Right,” Fusco muttered with a sarcastic edge of annoyance and a glare at the back of his increasingly taciturn companion before resuming following behind him.

The area for the most part looked dead and wasted. Many of the buildings were in serious disrepair or vacant—or both—or partially vacant. Subjects of foreclosures were plentiful.  They past a rundown but still functioning pawnshop flanked by some gutted businesses with plywood nailed to their fronts. The streets were littered with trash and Fusco spotted a couple of druggies stumbling down an alleyway beside a four story apartment building that looked to be less than half occupied.

This neighborhood was known to harbor criminal elements with relish, Fusco was well aware.  The general edict for those in neighboring vicinities who possessed half a brain and were at least somewhat respectable was as follows: _stay away at night and try to avoid during the day._ Particularly at night it wasn’t prudent for one to venture out in unless you had the protection of one of the gangs that controlled this unfortunate little corner of civilization. Local law enforcements were by no means oblivious but tended to turn a blind eye. These weren’t professional criminal entities with a long reach; they were merely street gangs with an operational arm that scarcely extended beyond a two-block radius and had little sophistication beyond cheap guns and knives. 

Fusco wasn’t worried.

Certainly not about petty street criminals. 

Least of all when he was with _Reese_.

No, it wasn’t that that he was worried about.

“You at least want to tell me what we’re looking for?” 

Fusco’s next attempt was met with silence. Reese had increased his pace slightly, and was paying little to no attention to his importunate companion. Daylight was waning as evening approached, further dulling the oppressed-looking streets. 

And with it the tension in Reese’s shoulders seemed to strengthen.

“How about the weather? You want to talk about that?” 

Fusco wasn’t expecting a response, and he didn’t get one. 

He eyed Reese as he slowed past a bar with a neon sign and a crooked awning—the _same_ bar they’d past by five minutes ago. He fell into step beside the ex-agent. “You don’t look so good.”

“Should I?” Reese finally shot back. He came to a stop but his eyes were constantly moving, and Fusco got the distinct impression the biting response wasn’t entirely directed at him. The ex-agent looked distracted and even more hassled and harried than before, though judging from his steadier step the bindings on his wound had helped. A breeze drew open his overcoat and Fusco noted some fresh blood had seeped through the bindings. He nodded at it. 

“You still need to get that cleaned out, you know,” he reminded him.

Reese glanced down at it with little interest before he started moving again, and Fusco almost had to sprint to keep up with the taller man’s long strides. 

“You really are incapable of taking it easy, aren’t you?” Fusco grumbled. He saw Reese check his watch for the fifth time, and added, “We here to meet someone?”

“There are no limits to your insight, Detective.”

Fusco ignored this. “You know, the way I see it, most folks just _wait_ at the agreed meeting spot. So why the _hell_ are we running circles _around_ it?” 

“You may not have noticed, Lionel, but this isn’t exactly the friendliest part of town.”

“What the devil does that have to do with anything? You know as well as I do that the trash ‘round here take one look at my badge, _heck_ , one look at _you,_ and go running with their tales between their legs. Scumbags only go for those who can’t fight back. So don’t give me some bullshit about—”

Fusco broke off. Reese had abruptly glanced in his direction, as if it had just occurred to him that Fusco hadn't been aware, before he promptly directed his gaze forward. 

That was when Fusco realized. 

And of course it was quite obvious now. Knowing Reese as he did, knowing the man’s propensity to maintain such a degree of calm, cool, measured pragmatism in just about any situation had left Fusco unsettled when reading anything less; the man’s _visible_ mounting anxiety as they circled the area numerous times had been leaving him more and more ill at ease. 

But of course he’d been reading it all wrong. Hard, reticent, and undoubtedly lethal though he may be, John Reese was, in all matter of things, and behind an exterior built from circumstance unimaginable to most, a nature inborn protector.

Particularly of those who couldn’t fight back.

Fusco breathed out audibly, somewhat relived by his misinterpretation. “Alright, Wonderboy, who is it we’re supposed to be meeting?” 

Reese cast a fleeting glance in his direction before studiously avoiding his eye. Features tight, he spoke the name in a low rasp. “Finch.” 

Fusco might have been somewhat expecting it by this point, but the unlikeness of it still took him off guard. 

“ _Finch?_ ” he barked in disbelief. “As in Mr. Vocabulary, boy genius, walks with a limp, tailored suits that cost a year’s worth of my salary…that _Finch?_ ” Fusco was surprised by the intensity of his own reaction. But, really, the idea of it was quite absurd, not to mention extremely ill-advised. While Harold Finch may have possessed an intellect well above the comprehension of most, the reclusive billionaire was quite close to inept when it came to bringing himself down to the rest of civilization. Unlike his employee’s skilled chameleon-like tendencies, Finch had little experience in dealing with the average scum of civilization. That, coupled with his aversion to violence, reduced physical capabilities, and much slighter appearance than Fusco’s stout stature or Reese’s imposing 6’ 3’’ made him a prime target for the type of street thugs that prowled the area.

Of course Reese was well aware of this. 

“Can you say that a little louder, Lionel. I’m not sure they heard you over in the next state,” he said icily. 

“For God’s sake, why are you meeting him _here_?” 

Reese’s tightening of jaw and sudden rigidness of shoulders was his only response. 

“Forget it,” Fusco begrudged.  Having deciphered correctly that the answer was esoteric in nature, Fusco hadn’t expected a response. 

So he was startled when he got one. 

Several paces later, Reese spoke.

“It’s a dead zone.” 

Fusco glanced sharply away from the nearby convenient store he’d been sweeping, looking perplexed.  “What?” 

Reese stopped. Fusco followed.

Withdrawing his cell phone from his inside pocket, Reese tossed it to the detective. 

Fusco caught it with both hands. “What’s this?”

“The answer to your question.”

“Not more damn riddles,” growled Fusco. “This thing doesn’t even have a signal,” he said after looking at the screen. 

“Exactly.” 

Reese’s face was solemn and steady when Fusco looked at him. The detective had gathered the significance soon enough, as Reese knew he would. 

And just like that the extent of Reese and Finch’s sequestering from the rest of the world became startling stark indeed. The noticeable absence of Reese’s earpiece—the normal mode of communication between the ex-agent and the reclusive—had suddenly taken on a much more sinister meaning. It shook Fusco more than he cared to admit. Because this unknown entity, undoubtedly esoteric in nature, yet no longer deniable in existence, possessed an arm with a reach that was just far too unfathomable to contemplate. 

It was too much to hope that the reclusive billionaire had befallen to an entanglement that was no more than greedy, unskilled criminals seeking to cash in, and Reese had come to set the record straight. No, this was much more dauntingly chilling in its austerity. The pair had simply arranged to meet— _here_ of all places. Fusco could only hope it had been more Harold Finch’s aptitude for paranoia than necessity that had driven the selection of one of New York’s scant few locations that were so doddery they lacked any form of surveillance as a rendezvous spot. Of course, given that Reese had at all agreed to the venue lent a fearful amount of weight to the necessity alternative. The ex-CIA agent was always in vehement protest to anything that required his employer to engage in a potentially dangerous situation on his own. Reese was fiercely protective of the older man.

Wordlessly, the ex-agent turned and resumed walking, taking several steps before Fusco moved to follow. 

Daylight was disappearing rapidly.

They’d doubled back and re-canvassed the area twice more before they found what they were looking for. 

Through the narrow, darkened alleyway between buildings and onto the next street, the group of them stood in front of the largest building that had once been a warehouse for the aging of bourbon whiskey; several empty, broken casks were scattered around the building’s exterior. There were three of them. All male. The tallest was just over six feet, brawny and tan, with arms bare to show off forearms with cords of muscle. One was leaner, bald, a Latino. The third was younger than the other two, no more than twenty, average build but with thick tattoo-covered arms. They all had the look of street-roughened gangbangers and wore the accompanying sneer and over-confident expression as they descended on their prey, outnumbering their victim three to one. 

Or so they thought.

While Fusco’s earlier remark on the billionaire’s inability to mingle held considerable weight, Harold Finch had at least disparaged somewhat. His suit, notably of lesser quality, was vaguely rumpled and creased. He was carrying a legal-sized shoulder bag and appeared commendably self-possessed as he went to withdraw something from it while the trio leered, the whole scene unfolding in a notoriously predictable fashion. 

Fusco made no move to intervene. He wouldn’t need to. 

“Is there a problem here, Fellows?” 

Finch tensed visibly; he needn’t turn to locate the source of the voice.

John Reese stood like a bulwark behind the much smaller, bespectacled Harold Finch, having appeared seemingly from out of nowhere, his movements startlingly swift and silent for such a large man. 

Finch’s panic was forthcoming. He had severely hoped to avoid this enviable intervention the moment he’d found himself in the predicament. Of course it had been too much to hope he’d make it to the rendezvous spot without mishap. “It’s all right, John,” the reclusive quickly attempted—futile, though he knew it was, his hand fumbling to retrieve the bills from his bag and prevent the potential catastrophe about to unfold, “these gentlemen and I have come to an understanding.”

“Have you.” 

The dangerously innocuous tone scorched with cynicism. 

“Got that right,” sneered Muscle, his limited attention span focused almost entirely on his next payday coming out of the bag. His first mistake. 

Impatient, and evidently the leader, Muscle Man signaled to the other two, followed by a deliberate nod in Finch’s direction, only to discover their path abruptly obstructed by broad, suited shoulders with appreciable height. 

“I’d rethink that if I were you.”

The tone was considerably colder this time.

“John,” Finch implored, taking a step toward the solid wall that was John Reese that had appeared in front of him, “not here,” he finished in a frantically hushed undertone. He sounded rather desperate now. 

“I’d listen to your friend if I were you,” said the leader, his attention now diverted to the obstacle standing in his way. His eyes roamed over Reese, sizing him up, calculating.

Reese’s gaze didn’t roam; he’d already taken in all relevant details long before. Hard, blue eyes leveled on the leader, keeping all else in the peripheral, missing nothing.

“And I suggest you and your friends here turn around and walk away.”

Finch braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.

The three glanced at one another. Their second mistake. 

Latino dropped his hand to the gun at his waistband. Only it wasn’t there. Reese had already confiscated the weapon, disarmed the knife that Tattoo withdrew, and was in the process of slamming his fist into one of the stunned-looking Muscle’s kidneys. Reese whirled around in time to block a blow from Latino and then laid him out with two quick punches, one to the gut, the other an uppercut to the jaw. 

Not looking nearly as confident now, Tattoo hesitated. Reese decided to spare him if he picked the smart option. Reese turned back to Muscle. Apparently, however, the young gangster’s intelligence was on short supply; his hand made a very obvious move to his back pocket. It never made it there. Reese kicked his legs out from under him, and the youngster landed on his arm at a very unfortunate angle, letting out a shriek of pain as he did so. 

Recovered enough from the first blow, Muscle charged at Reese. 

Reese sidestepped the attack and then slammed his elbow into the back of Muscle’s neck, sending him sprawling to the pavement. 

“Shit, what are you, a Ninja or something?” This came from Latino, who was holding his left side and had blood streaming from his nose. 

Reese withdrew the pistol he’d pilfered—a bottom of the line Cobra—stripped it in a matter of seconds, pocketed the magazine and seated round, and tossed the empty weapon onto the pavement in front of its owner before swiftly confiscating Tattoo’s from his back pocket and performing the same procedure. He’d kicked the knife well out of reach. “You really ought to take better care of your weapons,” he said as he finished emptying the second pistol. “It’s not balanced properly, it’s rusted, the feed ramp needs cleaning.” He tossed it back to Tattoo. “I wouldn’t,” he warned at Muscle’s not so subtle movement. 

With a grunt the gangster flew to his feet and charged. 

Reese grabbed his arm and in one quick maneuver had bent it back around until he received a cry of pain for his efforts. Muscle fell to his knees with his arm still in Reese’s iron grip. The ex-CIA agent confiscated the homemade shiv and held it against Muscle’s thick neck. 

The look he gave the other two was ice cold. 

They visibly recoiled. “Hey, look, man, we’re sorry, okay? This is our turf, we patrol it. Ain’t got no choice.” 

Reese brought Muscle to his feet and pressed the blade with just enough force. “Message for your boss; we’ll be sharing this _turf_. He stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of his.” He tightened the pressure on the gangster’s arm. “That means my friend and I are off limits. Come near either of us again and I’ll finish what I started.” He twisted just a little bit further until the leader cried out. “Are we clear?” 

“Yes!” Muscle cried out in a hissed whimper, while the other two nodded their assent with terrified vigor. 

“Good.” Reese released his captive with a hard shove, tossing the less than satisfactory blade into a nearby dumpster. 

The trio scampered to their feet and took off as if a flame had been ignited beneath them. 

Reese stood with his back to Finch, his tall frame thrown into dark silhouette, an imposing wraith of a shadow, to be sure. The dark had crept upon them. The only light now came from the faint pink glow at the horizon and that of two nearby streetlights, one of which was flickering feebly. Reese had appropriated the remaining discarded knife one of the gangsters had so thoughtfully left behind and was twirling it between his fingers before deciding it, too, was unworthy and pitching it into the dumpster with deadly accuracy. It landed with a resounding clang. 

Once the gangsters had disappeared from sight—and Finch’s aghast expression had mitigated somewhat—the reclusive pounced. 

“ _Mr. Reese_.” His tone was one of fierce disapproval and agitation. “Need I remind you the importance of _maintaining a low profile_? The situation as it stands is _extremely_ precarious. I’ve told you we simply _cannot_ afford to—“ 

“And I told you to bring Bear with you.” 

Reese’s tone was flat yet glacial in a way that only John Reese could accomplish. 

Finch bristled, lips pursed. “I had the matter in hand,” he said curtly.

Reese whirled around so fast that Finch actually fell back a step. The ex-agent bore down on the smaller man with a look that would have cowed even the most unshakable of opponents. “If you think for a _second_ that they would have just taken the money and left it at that, then I suggest you get yourself better acquainted with—” Reese broke off. 

Finch was no longer listening. He was staring up at Reese. Or rather, he was staring up at the cluster of yellow and purplish bruises marring the taller man’s face.

Reese abruptly turned away. 

“John!” 

“I’m fine.”

Fusco, who had been watching from the sidelines with a mixture of dubious amusement and complacence, wondered not for the first time if he would ever understand the relationship between the unlikely pair. Colleagues of a sort, certainly. Friends, as well—though while undoubtedly unusual and slow in formation—one could certainly attest to by now. But what was perhaps the strangest part about this unlikely comradeship was in fact that _—_ given two complex individuals with a multitude of secrets—the long-formed but undeniable friendship was quite oddly _simple_. No expectations. No restrictions. No limitations. No concealed motives. No conflictions. Little to no acknowledgement. Yet quite unmistakable. 

Perhaps that was the purest kind of all. 

“ _John._ ” Finch’s anxious voice was of quiet admonishment. “What have you done to yourself?” He had stepped around and reached up to grip the taller man’s chin and was angling it so he could better take in the damage. 

If Fusco hadn’t been sure from Reese’s earlier odd and cryptic responses regarding his boss that the pair hadn’t seen one another for quite sometime, he was now. Finch was as alarmed by Reese’s appearance as Fusco had been. What was more, Fusco knew it wasn’t merely the obvious recent combat injuries; the long-induced signs of exhaustion were plain, and Fusco was hard-pressed to believe the older man would’ve allowed Reese to get himself into such a state had he been aware. Finch was as attentive to Reese’s wellbeing as the ex-agent was protective.

Reese made a halfhearted attempt to dislodge himself from Finch’s ministrations, but the smaller man was having none of it. Fusco shook his head at the comical sight. Had it been anyone _but_ Harold Finch—Fusco himself included—they surely would have lost use of an arm by now. Displeased with the attention though he was, the former agent would never use force on the older man, and Finch was nothing if not stubborn. It left them at an impasse of sorts that was indeed comical had one observed their drastically contrasting physical appearances.

Finch was now regarding Reese with a disapproving scowl. 

“How many?” he demanded. “How many numbers since the last one?” 

“As many as I had to.” 

Finch may have countered this response had he not then caught the brief twinge in Reese’s features and quick, surreptitious placement of the larger man’s hand before it dropped again. It was easily missed; Reese, after all, was a master of concealing anything that might reveal he was in anything less than supreme condition. But the truth of the matter was Reese was flat out exhausted and his normally exceptionally high pain threshold had apparently dropped from what would otherwise have been a superficial and minor irritation at best to quite a persistent deterrent. Indeed Finch had also become quite apt over the years—much to Reese’s disgruntlement—at deciphering such signs from his less than forthcoming employee.

Finch’s reaction was immediate; he reached out and pulled back Reese’s overcoat—a bold move Fusco wouldn’t have dared attempt for fear of the aforementioned probable loss of limb. Reese, however, allowed it from the smaller man, albeit with a disgruntled look.   

Upon taking in the bloodstained suit jacket, Finch’s whole body tensed, and the anxious lines etched into his face became dramatically more pronounced. “John!” 

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” 

“That’s hardly reassuring!” 

Finch’s hands were already seizing the jacket with a frenzied tremor. Certainly, the dire nature of their recent situation had taking its toll on them both, amplifying an otherwise less dire one.

Reese recognized his former boss’s rising state of distress as the latter struggled with the simple task of unbuttoning the single suit jacket button. After a minute, Reese spoke. 

“Finch,” he said softly. “I’m all right.” 

The reclusive froze, eyes flicking upward at him once before he resumed his efforts of peeling back the layers of clothing, intent on his task. 

“I tried to get him to take it easy.”

Finch’s movements stilled once more. He had registered the detective’s presence during Reese’s less than pleasant method of dealing with the gangsters but hadn’t yet been afforded the opportunity to give it a moment’s thought and had promptly forgotten about it until now. He turned now but his gaze immediately moved from Fusco to Reese, his anxiety with the matter of the detective’s presence now that he was addressing it clear. The accusing look of inquiry he gave Reese was plain too.

“Don’t worry, Finch,” Reese supplied, “Fusco knows…” The ex-agent glanced at the man in question, apparently considering just how much the detective did in fact know. “…enough,” he settled with. 

“Hold on to your panties, Glasses,” Fusco added when Finch didn’t look assured. “He’s been the same old cryptic Jackass.”

The corner of Finch’s lip turned upwards at that. “It’s good to see you, Detective,” he said finally.

“Yeah, you know, it’s been pretty boring without you two ‘round.” 

A small smile passed across Finch’s lips at the detective’s usual sarcasm, but he’d turned back to his task and was now unbuttoning the lower buttons of Reese’s shirt.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Reese insisted once more, but Finch’s dark look had the taller man falling silent with a sigh that quickly became a sharp intake of breath when Finch peeled the shirt away from the wound. 

The bindings were still secure; however, though it had ultimately been a one-sided fight, the maneuvers and blows the ex-agent had dished out had aggravated the injury such that a substantial amount of fresh blood had soaked through the layers of cloth. 

Finch eyed it wearily, but his gaze was then moving over Reese’s entire torso, pulling open the shirt further to take in the array of bruises in various states of healing. Finch was silent for a long moment as he took in the sight. He’d come to the same conclusion that Fusco had. While injuries were commonplace for the ex-agent, this volume of them at one given time was not. Not for someone as skilled as Reese.

Finch’s face was grim. He still didn’t speak for several more heartbeats. Finally, in a near whisper, “You’re doing too much, John.” 

“What am I supposed to do, _Harold?”_ Reese bit out. “Save some but not others because I have to catch up on my beauty sleep?” 

Finch’s face was pained. “You can’t save them all.” A pause. “Not anymore.”

“So I’m supposed to just stop trying, is that it?”

Reese was expecting some form of resistance from the older man, some kind of avoidance or deflection of the question. What he got instead was not at all what he was expecting. 

“Yes,” was the steady response. 

The one word reply told Reese more of just how much damage their current situation had inflicted on the world around them and, more importantly, his friend than anything ever had previously. 

Finch wasn’t looking at him. He was now gently prodding the bandage around the wound, looking for any signs of inflammation or infection.

Reese gritted his teeth, but a hiss of pain escaped him when a particular tender spot was pressed.

Finch’s forehead creased anxiously. “Mr. Reese, have you cleaned and disinfected the wound? Was it a bullet?” 

“It’s _fine_ ,” Reese repeated for the umpteenth time, impatient now.

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Reese.”

“I’ve been a little busy, Harold.”

That was answer enough for Finch. “I’ve some first aid supplies in my vehicle just a couple of blocks away. I can retrieve them and meet you at the location—” 

“No.” 

Finch, who had already started to move away, turned back to face Reese, startled by the ex-agent’s abruptly harsh tone.

“You’re not going off alone.”

Finch stared to object, but then thought better of it after taking in the ex-agent’s unrelentingly stony expression. Not to mention, he also didn’t particularly fancy further acquainting himself with any more of the current vicinity’s less than respectable individuals if he could avoid it. 

“We’ll do what we came here to do, and then I’ll tend to this,” Reese said as he pulled his shirt closed. 

Fusco took that as his cue, deciding that Reese would no longer be a threat to himself now that Finch was in the picture. “You two have fun with that. If I don’t get back to _my_ day job, the Captain will chew my ass off. And thanks to Wonderboy here I’ve got my work cut out for me.” 

“Yes, about that,” Finch said, removing a file from his bag. “I was going to give this to Mr. Reese to pass on to you, but seeing as you’re here already…” He threw another pointed look at Reese before handing the file to the detective. 

Fusco eyed the name on the front. “More dirt on Dixon?”   

“I think you’ll find you have everything you need now, detective,” Finch said by way of an answer. 

“Right. Thanks. I think.” He eyed Reese again. “And keep Wonderboy here out of trouble.” He started to turn. 

“Detective,” Finch stopped him. A pause. “Thank you.”

Fusco blinked. “Okay, first Wonderboy and now you. Now I’m really starting to get worried. What the hell you thanking me for?” 

Finch glanced meaningfully at Reese. “Despite Mr. Reese’s abundance of skills, seeing to his own injuries has never been one of them.” Reese shot him a glare at that which the reclusive promptly ignored.

“Oh, that. Yeah, sure,” said Fusco, looking slightly uncomfortable by the unforeseen gratitude.

Remembering he hadn’t returned Reese’s cell phone, he held it out to the taller man now. 

Reese looked at it for a moment before he seemed to decide something and shook his head. “Keep it.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t contact you.”

“No, not for that.” He shared a look with Finch. “That phone is virtually…untraceable. It may…come in handy.”

Fusco could sense when they were reaching unchartered territory and resigned himself not to question further. He pocketed the phone, feeling an unfamiliar sense of dread.

There was an awkward silence as the three men stood in the dark of the evening in one of the most secluded locations of New York, and Fusco very much felt like he was an outsider. 

The pair had always been clandestine in their activities, but the more and more that had been revealed to the detective—bits and pieces of a shocking reality—only further cemented in an ice-cold and grueling fashion that whatever it was they were caught up in was extremely grave and ruthless. Behind the words and unspoken truths Fusco knew what they were doing.

In a perhaps subtle, inexplicable way, they were issuing a farewell.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Take care, Detective.”

Fusco knew the words were empty.

When he turned around and walked away, he wondered if he would ever see either one of them again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick comment because some of you commented in reviews, wondering what had happened to Reese. It was meant to be ambiguous. This story was my interpretation of what would happen after season 3 before we knew anything about season 4. My line of thinking that kind of inspired this was that these guys were suddenly going from being able to dedicate all their time to saving the numbers to not only having full time jobs but also working behind the scenes against Samaritan. The way I saw it, this would just be impossible to keep up with. We’d seen how working the numbers often required 24 hour surveillance, not to mention absolutely no operating schedule. How the heck do you even do that at all with a full time job? Yes, it would be quite impossible, I think (even with help from others). But Reese, being Reese, would still try, and it would keep wearing him down more and more. And Finch…well, we know what his reaction was. I’m actually quite pleased that my interpretation of how he would react ended up more or less following actual canon. Though to be honest I still find it a bit unrealistic how in season 4 they had them managing to keep up with saving numbers and working their jobs AND plotting against Samaritan so well.


End file.
